


i've been missing a long time

by transiock



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky Barnes Remembers, Bucky Barnes-centric, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Gen, Inspired by The Fall of Icarus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), M/M, Recovered Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 20:07:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19383805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transiock/pseuds/transiock
Summary: The man on the bridge-- he knows him. It's something about his eyes, something about how he clenches his fist. His face invades Bucky's ice-encased dreams.Bucky needs to find him. Even if he gets burned in the process.





	i've been missing a long time

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by blondedicarus/blondedseb's edit: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=59USp8goZNA
> 
> it's lovely, and beautiful, and various other good things. 
> 
> title is from joji's WANTED U (which is used in the edit)

_ I knew him, I knew him, I knew him. _

He’s strapped down, rubber in his mouth, but there’s enough energy coursing through him to break everything and anything. He can’t let this go. He can’t go back to a blank slate. The dullness, fuzziness he normally felt whenever he was awake was washed off, He doesn’t want to leave yet. If they would just give him a fucking second. If they would just let him  _ remember _ .

_ I knew him, I knew him, I knew him. _

The scream comes from somewhere other, but it burns his throat the same. His muscles tense, his body aches. He’s been through it all before, but the pain never changes, never fades. His first memory of it is one of the only things he can keep hold of. Everything else is torn apart, ripped from his very being and hidden somewhere he won’t find it again. The only thing left is anger. And fear.

When his eyes open again, he’s somewhere else, somewhere smaller. His body knows what it’s doing even if Bucky himself doesn’t, his legs carrying him cautiously forward. Everything feels slick, like oil slipping through his mind, and the world outside is moving at breakneck speed. His hands are on a gun, at least. He just needs to know where to point it.

A noise behind him, and he turns. It’s the same man, same permanent puppy pout, same blue eyes. He holds his shield in front of him, and Bucky doesn’t even need a cue. He ducks, and the shield spins over him. Bucky looks back and there’s a new body on the ground, gun lying a few inches away from it.

Steve,  _ Steve _ , holds out his hand, pulls Bucky up, and the image solidifies around him, slows down even. He’s standing on solid ground, has a clear head, and Steve’s hand feels painfully real in his. 

And then the wall rips away. Steve is dragged backward. Bucky scrambles to keep hold of him, falling on all fours as he watches Steve’s hand be ripped from his, as Steve’s body is pulled out of the train. He screams his name hoping that’ll be enough to get him back, keeps his hand reaching out hoping that he’s not really gone.

The ground turns to ash under him, and he’s falling, and the mountains are blue, blue, blue. Snow catches him, but he doesn’t feel cold. He doesn’t feel anything. He knows he’ll be found soon. He knows they’ll replace his arm. He knows he won’t be Bucky for much longer. And all he can think about are those blue eyes.

He blinks and he’s in the air, solid ground under him. The sky is the same shade of blue as the mountain, as the man’s eyes in front of him. That damn shield drops to the ground, clangs against the metal of the airship. Bucky can’t quite comprehend the man’s face, but he knows those eyes anywhere.

He steps towards Steve.

_ You’re my friend, Bucky. _

And the ground gives out under them all over again. He’s falling, but this time, there’s no snow to catch him. There’s nothing but the ocean. And he’s drowning, and he’s drowning, and he’s drowning.

He opens his eyes. His head and vision is fuzzy, his mouth dry, and it’s unbearably cold. He shouldn’t be awake. He shouldn’t remember everything he does. Warmth in the form of rage rises from the bottom of his spine to his fingers, and he hits whatever barrier’s in front of him as hard as he can manage. And again, and again, and again until he hears a crack.  _ And again, and again, and again  _ until he can hear people on the other side, until they’re opening the cage they locked him inside of.  

He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care what they’re saying. He can’t hear them over his own heartbeat anyway. Men are at his arms, in front of him, trying to hold him back--  _ they’ve always held him back _ \-- and he’s moving through them, tearing them off with one thing on his mind.

_ Steve Rogers. _

The museum is packed. Parents with children, teenagers with friends, couples, history buffs, all staring at the shiny plaques with the same look of awe, the same distanced romanticism that everyone has for past they’re not connected to. They see brave men and women. Bucky sees family. 

A picture of his, five feet tall, black and white, with narration if his life story, is standing in the middle of the room. He can tell it’s him, can feel the nagging recognition, but it might as well be a stranger with how’re they’re talking about him. He didn’t care about the war, especially when it came to what they made him famous for. He cared about Steve. He went in there for Steve. 

When they were younger, and Steve was just a scrawny kid from Brooklyn, he would come over with a black eye, or bruised knuckles, or a bloody nose, and Bucky would patch him up, call his Ma, and let him stay the night. He’d hold Steve close, his frame small enough to be wrapped around twice, and he’d whisper poems he had memorized-- Tennyson waxing pretty about hope for the future, Keats talking of Heaven, Browning singing hymns about the nagging longing of love-- until Steve was long asleep, rumbling breaths making up the whole of him. Sometimes Bucky’s ma would peek her head in, give them both a warm smile with what was left of her lipstick that day, and let Bucky know there was dinner on the stove.

Bucky likes to think they were happy, that they had some peace in how they lived. They had a future, and it included both of them. 

The people around Bucky were staring in long, scared glances. Bucky pulls his hat lower and looks down. And, as he’s sticking his hands into his pockets, trying to shrink as much as possible, trying to dull the shine of his metal arm, the narration starts up again.

_ Steve Rogers now lives in the Avengers tower, a location not open to the public, built by--  _ Bucky lifts his head, the monotone, pseudo-friendly voice now the most intriguing part of his day.

_ Avengers _ . Bucky almost laughs.

 

It’s like following a star, like being called home. He walks outside, and the sun welcomes him with open arms. He goes into Times Square, his body carrying his mind, and it’s so different from what he remembers, the warmth from the sun being the only thing that’s stayed the same. 

People don’t stare, but they steer clear. Bucky becomes a rock, his home a river, and it doesn’t take long for his personal sun to complete the picture. He’s come with friends, but Bucky pays them no mind. They all can watch as he’s consumed, as his wings of wax melt, as he falls in a way so different from times before. They can watch as Bucky fades away right in front of their eyes. 

Steve’s eyes are wide and watering, his eyebrows just barely pushing together, his shield ready, his mouth half-open, and Bucky doesn’t even raise his hands. Even if he’s killed, even if he becomes a mural on the street, seeing Steve one last time, seeing how strong he stands, it’s all worth it.

Bucky takes a shaky step forward, adrenaline filling him more than blood. Steve steadies his shield, his friends tensing the same. Bucky reaches his hand out, flesh and bone, and breakable, and human.

_ I don’t wanna hurt you, Bucky. _

_ Then don’t. _

He keeps his hand out until his fingertips are touching the metal. Red, white, and blue, like the rest of Steve. His hair is a bit longer, his lips a touch more pink, all of him more lively. Bucky has to keep himself from breaking right there. He doesn’t want to think about the life Steve’s lived without him, about all the ways he’s moved on. It would make him wish he’d never come back.

_ Steve. _

That one syllable is enough for him to lower the shield. No one around him follows his lead. He reaches a hand out and grips Bucky’s shoulder. There’s a thin moment that spreads between Steve’s guard dropping and the next, and in it, Bucky prays to any god he can think of that Steve sees him.

Steve pulls him in for a hug. It’s tight, desperate, and it pushes Bucky over the edge. Tears fall down his face and onto Steve’s shoulder, his arms quickly wrapping around Steve as tight as he’s able. The shield falls to the ground.

He sinks into this moment. He can hear Steve’s group mumbling, some obviously worried, and he can hear Steve’s heartbeat. Steve’s skin is warm, his body more familiar than his own; his hands, his arms, and all that he’s made of is more real than anything else Bucky knows. 

_ Let’s take you home. _

 

Bucky leans his head on Steve’s shoulder as the car drives almost perfectly smooth. Steve takes Bucky’s hand in his, and he pushes down the prickling anxiety in his limbs. He closes their eyes, and they’re flying, and the ground is nothing to be scared of. The sun no longer burns how it used to. 

_ How did you escape? _

Bucky recalls the star nesting in his chest, filling him to the brim with bright, bright passion and taking place of his heart.

_... I thought of you. _


End file.
